“Hey,” she said softly. She looked up at Kate. “Can we talk for a minute, Mom? She and I?”
“Sure,” Kate answered numbly. Her spirit and brain were fried. “I’ll take a walk.”
“Not for long,” Wanda said. “Just a few minutes.”
Kate hiked down to Haight Street and went into the first joint she came across. She sat alone at the end of the dark wooden bar, drinking a vodka martini, straight up. She hadn’t smoked a cigarette in fifteen years, but if smoking was still permitted in California bars she would have lit one up without hesitation.
She milked her drink, because she knew two would be over the top. Finally draining it to the last drop, she gathered her change off the bar and trudged back up the street to Wanda’s apartment.
The girls were waiting for her. Sophia had washed her face and redone her lip gloss. She smiled wanly at Kate, who was shaking inside.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Sophia said in an even, steady voice. “I know I can’t stay here.” She turned to her sister for a moment, then looked at Kate again. “I need to be with you.” She paused. “We need to be with each other.”
6
W HEN MARIA ESTRADA DIDN’T come home by ten o’clock at night, her mother tried her on her cell phone, but got the recorded message. After she dialed two more times with the same result she started calling Maria’s friends, trying to find her delinquent daughter. But none of the usual suspects knew where Maria was, and after an hour of fruitless trying, Mrs. Estrada gave up and went to bed.
This wasn’t the first time Maria hadn’t come home at night over the past few months; during summertime, kids slept over at each other’s houses as much as they slept at their own. But now, although school had started again, Maria was still gypsying around. She’d show up at home when she felt like it, blithely announcing that she’d been at this or that friend’s house and had forgotten to call, or had tried and the line was busy, or that she’d lost track of the time and it was too late to call—the usual litany of lame excuses that she knew her mother didn’t believe but didn’t have the energy to get into a fight over. Mrs. Estrada was pretty sure that Maria had a boyfriend she was keeping secret, probably an older man the family wouldn’t approve of. She knew that Maria had been sexually active for at least two years, because she had found a discarded condom mixed up in her daughter’s underwear (she was always cleaning up after Maria, a worse-than-usual teenage slob) in the spring of Maria’s tenth-grade year, and had angrily confronted Maria about it. Maria had flown into a rage at the invasion of her privacy, declaring that if she wanted to have sex that was her business, she was almost sixteen and every other girl in the universe was doing it, and that her mother ought to be glad she was using protection.
They hadn’t spoken to each other for almost a week after that blowup, and from then on Maria’s sexual activities weren’t mentioned. Her mother put her head in the sand about the subject, and they managed to coexist under the same roof. As long as Maria didn’t get pregnant, come down with a sexually transmitted disease, get heavily into drugs, and did the minimum amount of work required to graduate, Mrs. Estrada was willing to turn a blind eye. In nine months Maria would finish high school, get a job, and would move in with two of her older female cousins who had their own apartment in Carpinteria. Latino girls didn’t stay at home with their families until they were married anymore, especially antsy girls like Maria. Mrs. Estrada wasn’t unhappy with that prospect.
But when Maria failed to show up at school the next day—the social services worker called, checking up on her—and didn’t come home again that night, there was enough cause for alarm that Mrs. Estrada, a divorced woman who had raised Maria on her own, was sufficiently worried that she called the police and
“Sure,” Kate answered numbly. Her spirit and brain were fried. “I’ll take a walk.”
“Not for long,” Wanda said. “Just a few minutes.”
Kate hiked down to Haight Street and went into the first joint she came across. She sat alone at the end of the dark wooden bar, drinking a vodka martini, straight up. She hadn’t smoked a cigarette in fifteen years, but if smoking was still permitted in California bars she would have lit one up without hesitation.
She milked her drink, because she knew two would be over the top. Finally draining it to the last drop, she gathered her change off the bar and trudged back up the street to Wanda’s apartment.
The girls were waiting for her. Sophia had washed her face and redone her lip gloss. She smiled wanly at Kate, who was shaking inside.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Sophia said in an even, steady voice. “I know I can’t stay here.” She turned to her sister for a moment, then looked at Kate again. “I need to be with you.” She paused. “We need to be with each other.”
6
W HEN MARIA ESTRADA DIDN’T come home by ten o’clock at night, her mother tried her on her cell phone, but got the recorded message. After she dialed two more times with the same result she started calling Maria’s friends, trying to find her delinquent daughter. But none of the usual suspects knew where Maria was, and after an hour of fruitless trying, Mrs. Estrada gave up and went to bed.
This wasn’t the first time Maria hadn’t come home at night over the past few months; during summertime, kids slept over at each other’s houses as much as they slept at their own. But now, although school had started again, Maria was still gypsying around. She’d show up at home when she felt like it, blithely announcing that she’d been at this or that friend’s house and had forgotten to call, or had tried and the line was busy, or that she’d lost track of the time and it was too late to call—the usual litany of lame excuses that she knew her mother didn’t believe but didn’t have the energy to get into a fight over. Mrs. Estrada was pretty sure that Maria had a boyfriend she was keeping secret, probably an older man the family wouldn’t approve of. She knew that Maria had been sexually active for at least two years, because she had found a discarded condom mixed up in her daughter’s underwear (she was always cleaning up after Maria, a worse-than-usual teenage slob) in the spring of Maria’s tenth-grade year, and had angrily confronted Maria about it. Maria had flown into a rage at the invasion of her privacy, declaring that if she wanted to have sex that was her business, she was almost sixteen and every other girl in the universe was doing it, and that her mother ought to be glad she was using protection.
They hadn’t spoken to each other for almost a week after that blowup, and from then on Maria’s sexual activities weren’t mentioned. Her mother put her head in the sand about the subject, and they managed to coexist under the same roof. As long as Maria didn’t get pregnant, come down with a sexually transmitted disease, get heavily into drugs, and did the minimum amount of work required to graduate, Mrs. Estrada was willing to turn a blind eye. In nine months Maria would finish high school, get a job, and would move in with two of her older female cousins who had their own apartment in Carpinteria. Latino girls didn’t stay at home with their families until they were married anymore, especially antsy girls like Maria. Mrs. Estrada wasn’t unhappy with that prospect.
But when Maria failed to show up at school the next day—the social services worker called, checking up on her—and didn’t come home again that night, there was enough cause for alarm that Mrs. Estrada, a divorced woman who had raised Maria on her own, was sufficiently worried that she called the police and
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